Saenctum
Part 1 Dense fog gathered in the center of the terrain. Over a ridge to the north, surrounded by rolling hills on each side, a desolate church stood isolated and abandoned, the fog slowly creeping towards it; tendrils, like fingers, clawed their way closer, slowly smothering the open pathway that lead to the entrance with the oak doors of the church. The hazel frame of the door had a corner missing, all splintered and fractured from where the mites had been chewing for centuries. The metal of the door handle had eroded with rust and the colour had faded from the harsh gold that it once was to a dull grey today. Name: Octavian Silvercrest District: 8 Gender: Male Age: 18 Personality: Charming: Octavian enjoys getting people to like him and is exceptionally well at it, although he sometimes gets annoyed at how people tend to like him more than he sought. Confident: He’s extremly sure of his abilites and never thinks he is at a disadvange in any situation and will never back down from a fight, a trait which often gets him into serious trouble. Honorable: He always tries to do the right thing and looks out for the people who are weaker then him, and hates anyone who takes advantage of and/or acts as if they are above others Daring: Octavian’s always willing to take risks and try feats of grandour, even if it means risking his own life. Backstory: Octavian was born to two simple citizens of District 12, Kessie and Theodore Silvercrest. Kessie was a merchant and Theodore was a Metallurgist. They lived a simple, modest life in the Seam, but always preached the virtues of honor and integrity to the young Octavian. These lessons were forever imprinted upon his mind. Octavian lived a simple life of little note before he reached the age of 13. When Octavian was 13 a man broke into his house, waking both Octavian and his parents in the process. His mother tried to stop the intruder from fleeing, but the man killed her and escaped. This tramuatized Octavians’ father putting him into an almost catatonic state of despair and he now rarely ever leaves his house or speaks.At the same time, this atrocity opened Octavian’s eyes to all of the injustice and corruption among both the people of the District and from the Peacekeepers who were suppose to be protecting them. Octavian realized that someone had to try and put things right, and the only one who could was himself. He took his fathers old bow, a family heirloom kept secret from everyone, and he began training himself with it while at the same time teaching himself marital arts. He contiuned this training for five years without ever using his skills until one day when he encountered an in-process house robbery, the very same kind that happened to his family. Octavian decided to intervene. He easily defeated and detained the intruder and his success made him realize how he could help his District. He then secretly made himself a black hood with cloth he bought from the black market and from then on, he began to patrol the District every nightnigh, stopping any crime--no matter the severity or the perpetrators-- whenever he saw it. He did this noble task for two years and began to believe he was finally changing things…up until the day he was Reaped and sent to the Hunger Games. Height: 5'10 Appearance: Octavian is lean and handsome, straight as a spear, body hard with muscle. He has a mop of deep ebony hair, pale blue eyes, and an aquiline nose. He is strong and fast, with a powerful arms and toughened legs from many fights. Weapon: Bow and Arrows, Throwing Knives. His main weapons of choice while fighting crime back in District 12. It gives him a ranged advantage, and also allows him to incapacitate a stronger opponent from afar. Strengths: Martial Arts, Climbing. Octavian has honed his body to the point where it is a weapon unto itself. He will need no blade or axe to slay his opposition, he could simply break their trachea or snap their neck. However, he usually only kills though he finds to be unjust. He is also an expert climber, able to scale the tallest of buildings with relative ease. Weaknesses: Swimming, Plant Identification, sometimes exceedingly Reckless. He has absolutely no experience with the outdoors or rural areas, so he will be at a disadvantage when at the mercy of nature, which tends to be quite often in the Hunger Games. Fears: Someone he cares about dying: Since he lost his mother young, he has an almost unreasonable fear of someone he loves dying and he breaks down into a panic if someone even gets somewhat close to death, because of this he stays by himself and rarely gets close to anyone. Interview Angle: Talk about how the Games just don’t make sense and how he doesn’t see what’s so entertaining about watching people die. Bloodbath Strategy: Run out as fast as he can and get his hand on a bow and some arrows. As soon as he has accomplished this he will then get out of there as quickly as he can trying to avoid confrontation, but if he is attacked he will fight back. Token: His mothers old faded blue bracelet. He has kept it with him everever since she died. Alliance: Join with one or two trustful people, possibly the Anti-Careers, if the alliance exists. Ace Merciless Age: 18 Height: 5'11 District: Eight Appearance: Ace is a mysterious individual, rarely ever showing his face, which he usually has hidden behind a black skull embroidered bandanna. His eyes, a steely blue, are ever taking in his surroundings. His hair is cut short, a practical style best suited for his tasks, and a dark brown colour. He is of average height but he has broad shoulders and carries an air of confidence about him. Personality: As his name implies, Ace is completely merciless. He shows no concern for his victims, whether they be as young as a child or an elderly cripple. If he has them in his sights, he will kill them. No questions asked. Ace is also quite intelligent, always coming up with clever ways to assassinate his target, knowing that brawn is not always better then brain or vice versa. He makes sure to have plenty of both, however his belief in this often breeds an arrogance in him. Socializing is not his forte and he would much rather lurk in the shadows then speak with people, except for his employer of course. While he does not care for people, he does treasure one thing above all and that is money. Money, he believes, is the only thing in the world that matters. With money comes power, prestige, just about anything one could want. Money is the see all end all for him and he is willing to do just about anything for it, even volunteer for the Hunger Games. Backstory: Ace was born on a cold rainy night, or at least he likes to think he was. He has recollection of his early years, years he spent combing the seedy underbelly of District 8 with his parents. They were penniless paupers, the sort no one of any prestige cared for. Barely able to feed theirselves his parents chose to abandon him while he was only six years old.They slipped off into the night and were never heard from again. Ace likes to think that they died a slow agonizing death but he has no proof of that. After their departure young Ace was left alone. Of course a child of his age would be hard pressed to survive but luckily for him, he was discovered by a thieving man by the name of Barit Corbin. Corbin was not in any way a pleasant man but he had pity for the young child...and could also see a use for him. He took Ace him and trained him in his ways of thieving and assassinating. Ace was a natural, becoming easily accustomed to taking from others. He learned that there were only three type of people in the world, those that took from the weak, those that were preyed upon...and himself. After viewing himself as above all others he began killing and stealing from anyone he could, which with his natural talent and strict training, was just about anyone. Corbin and him lived a plentiful life of thievery until one unfortunate day when Corbin became deathly ill from a gripping virus. No medicine or money could heal him and he eventually succumbed to the illness. This, of course, meant that Ace was once again on his own. But unlike last time he was now older, fourteen to be exact, and much more talented. He carried on with his ways, killing and stealing whenever he wanted, and quickly became a known figure in District 8. He adorned a skull embroidered bandanna from a factory and the Skull Faced shadow became a local figure. Naturally, this drew the attention of Peacekeepers and would-be Rebels alike. He began meeting with people and they started giving him tasks. Simple ones at first, like stealing from the Justice Building or eliminating a pesky citizen. For each job Ace was paid in money, essentially becoming a mercenary for anyone who was willing to fare his bill. He didn't care what the job was or who he was killing. As long as his clients money was good, he would do what was needed of him. A few times people got the idea on their head to try and backstab or capture him but they quickly learned that he was no easy target. Over the years he had become an expert shot with a crossbow, a tool that which he had plenty of ammunition and replacements, thanks to Corbin's thieving, and he could hit the hardest of targets in pitch dark. Oftentimes, those that sought to end him wound up dead themselves. People learned not to cross him, and why should they? He was an expert assassin and was willing to work for anyone, as long as they had the money. He didn't care whether you were for or against the Capital. That was irrelevant. He had no qualms with the Capitol's ironclad rule. They created chaos after all, and chaos created opportunities. Opportunities he may not have received otherwise. No, he did not dislike the Capitol. But that didn't mean he wouldn't take jobs against them, as well as for them. But the Capitol did invent one thing that interested him very much. The Hunger Games. The truest test of one's strength and intelligence. Ace very much wished to experience the thrill of the Games and there was also another bonus. If, no, when he won, he would have all the money he could possibly want. So, with this decided, he volunteered for the Games, walking onto the stage with a cold smile and pulling his bandanna over his face, revealing his identity to all for the first time. Weapons: One of Ace's best weapons is a Crossbow. Corbin had excelled in use of the long ranged weapon but Ace had quickly surpassed even him in skill. He has remarkable aim, even claiming to have "never missed a shot", though this is debatable. His second weapon are simple Knives. He's an expert in close quarters combat and his stupendous agility makes him quite the fighter. He always has skill in throwing the knives, even ones not properly weighted for it. Strengths: Ace's main strength is his Stealth. His ability to move around unseen is uncanny and not a skill possessed by most. Usually by the time his victim sees him, it's far too late. His next major strength is his Climbing ability. He can make his way up just about anything and proves this often while on the job. Weaknesses: By far Ace's biggest weakness is his immense Overconfidence. He believes that no other person poses even the most rudimentary of threats to him and this often leads to devastating mistakes, something that is seen often in the Hunger Games. His next weakness is a common one and that is his Swimming skills, or lack thereof. He doesn't have the slightest idea of what to do in a deep body of water and so he will do whatever possible to ensure he is not in such a depth. In the same vein, Ace inept when it comes to living in the wild. Fear: Ace is deathly afraid of large animals, ever since an incident when he was young involving a large dog. He tries his best to hide his fear and would never admit to this, but there is a reason why those with pet dogs or other large creatures rarely find themselves as his victims... Reason for winning: Money and power. Pure and simple. Ace volunteered solely for this reason and it is the only thing motivating him. He has no other reason nor does he need one. Money is the greatest motivator in life and he will do whatever it takes to see his ambition come to fruition. Name: Ace Merciless Age: 18 Height: 5'11 District: Eight Appearance: Ace is a mysterious individual, rarely ever showing his face, which he usually has hidden behind a black skull embroidered bandanna. His eyes, a steely blue, are ever taking in his surroundings. His hair is cut short, a practical style best suited for his tasks, and a dark brown colour. He is of average height but he has broad shoulders and carries an air of confidence about him. Personality: As his name implies, Ace is completely merciless. He shows no concern for his victims, whether they be as young as a child or an elderly cripple. If he has them in his sights, he will kill them. No questions asked. Ace is also quite intelligent, always coming up with clever ways to assassinate his target, knowing that brawn is not always better then brain or vice versa. He makes sure to have plenty of both, however his belief in this often breeds an arrogance in him. Socializing is not his forte and he would much rather lurk in the shadows then speak with people, except for his employer of course. While he does not care for people, he does treasure one thing above all and that is money. Money, he believes, is the only thing in the world that matters. With money comes power, prestige, just about anything one could want. Money is the see all end all for him and he is willing to do just about anything for it, even volunteer for the Hunger Games. Backstory: Ace was born on a cold rainy night, or at least he likes to think he was. He has recollection of his early years, years he spent combing the seedy underbelly of District 8 with his parents. They were penniless paupers, the sort no one of any prestige cared for. Barely able to feed theirselves his parents chose to abandon him while he was only six years old.They slipped off into the night and were never heard from again. Ace likes to think that they died a slow agonizing death but he has no proof of that. After their departure young Ace was left alone. Of course a child of his age would be hard pressed to survive but luckily for him, he was discovered by a thieving man by the name of Barit Corbin. Corbin was not in any way a pleasant man but he had pity for the young child...and could also see a use for him. He took Ace him and trained him in his ways of thieving and assassinating. Ace was a natural, becoming easily accustomed to taking from others. He learned that there were only three type of people in the world, those that took from the weak, those that were preyed upon...and himself. After viewing himself as above all others he began killing and stealing from anyone he could, which with his natural talent and strict training, was just about anyone. Corbin and him lived a plentiful life of thievery until one unfortunate day when Corbin became deathly ill from a gripping virus. No medicine or money could heal him and he eventually succumbed to the illness. This, of course, meant that Ace was once again on his own. But unlike last time he was now older, fourteen to be exact, and much more talented. He carried on with his ways, killing and stealing whenever he wanted, and quickly became a known figure in District 8. He adorned a skull embroidered bandanna from a factory and the Skull Faced shadow became a local figure. Naturally, this drew the attention of Peacekeepers and would-be Rebels alike. He began meeting with people and they started giving him tasks. Simple ones at first, like stealing from the Justice Building or eliminating a pesky citizen. For each job Ace was paid in money, essentially becoming a mercenary for anyone who was willing to fare his bill. He didn't care what the job was or who he was killing. As long as his clients money was good, he would do what was needed of him. A few times people got the idea on their head to try and backstab or capture him but they quickly learned that he was no easy target. Over the years he had become an expert shot with a crossbow, a tool that which he had plenty of ammunition and replacements, thanks to Corbin's thieving, and he could hit the hardest of targets in pitch dark. Oftentimes, those that sought to end up wound up dead themselves. People learned not to cross him, and why should they? He was an expert assassin and was willing to work for anyone, as long as they had the money. He didn't care whether you were for or against the Capital. That was irrelevant. He had no qualms with the Capitol's ironclad rule. They created chaos after all, and chaos created opportunities. Opportunities he may not have received otherwise. No, he did not dislike the Capitol. But that didn't mean he wouldn't take jobs against them, as well as for them. But the Capitol did invent one thing that interested him very much. The Hunger Games. The truest test of one's strength and intelligence. Ace very much wished to experience the thrill of the Games and there was also another bonus. If, no. When he won, he would have all the money he could possibly want. So, with this decided, he volunteered for the Games, walking onto the stage with a cold smile and pulling his bandanna over his face, revealing his identity to all for the first time. Weapons: One of Ace's best weapons is a Crossbow. Corbin had excelled in use of the long ranged weapon but Ace had quickly surpassed even him in skill. He has remarkable aim, even claiming to have "never missed a shot", though this is debatable. His second weapon are simple Knives. He's an expert in close quarters combat and his stupendous agility makes him quite the fighter. He always has skill in throwing the knives, even ones not properly weighted for it. Strengths: Ace's main strength is his Stealth. His ability to move around unseen is uncanny and not a skill possessed by most. Usually by the time his victim sees him, it's far too late. His next major strength is his Climbing ability. He can make his way up just about anything and proves this often while on the job. Weaknesses: By far Ace's biggest weakness is his immense Overconfidence. He believes that no other person poses even the most rudimentary of threats to him and this often leads to devastating mistakes, something that is seen often in the Hunger Games. His next weakness is a common one and that is his Swimming skills, or lack thereof. He doesn't have the slightest idea of what to do in a deep body of water and so he will do whatever possible to ensure he is not in such a depth. Fear: Ace is deathly afraid of large animals, ever since an incident when he was young involving a large dog. He tries his best to hide his fear and would never admit to this, but there is a reason why those with pet dogs or other large creatures rarely find themselves as his victims... Reason for winning: Money and power. Pure and simple. Ace volunteered solely for this reason and it is the only thing motivating him. He has no other reason nor does he need one. Money is the greatest motivator in life and he will do whatever it takes to see his ambition come to fruition. Name: Lofton Gifford District: 10, 11 Gender: Male Age: 16 Strengths: Lofton is great at Running and Climbing as he does the two almost every day. Because of this, avoiding other tributes will come naturally to him. Weaknesses: Lofton isn't all that Strong (Stength). He prefers flight to fight after all. He also isn't too willing to commit to killing. He wants to come home but is he willing to end others lives to do so? He's not so sure... Weapon: Lofton's main weapon is a Sickle. They're quite common in District 10 and so he has seen the weapon many times before. His next weapon would be a Sword. They're sharp, dangerous and just look downright awesome! Personality: Lofton is a Kind boy, if quite Lazy. He completely despises listening to people he doesn't respect or do things he doesn't enjoy and unfortunately for him, he has to do that often. Lofton is a Funny boy and usually has a joke or two up his sleeve in just about situation. He doesn't take anything too seriously and while this can annoy son people, he quite frankly doesn't care. He's a free spirit, doing whatever he wants whenever he wants. Until he got Reaped that is. Appearence: He has light brown hair and sea-green eyes. He's not exactly a big individual and is slightly smaller than average. He's pretty thin, thanks to his constant running from Peacekeepers. Backstory: Lofton doesn't exactly have a special or unique life. He and his parents and younger brother (Griffin. Aged 13.) work in the fields of District -. Lofton dislikes the work and often skips it and just hangs around the District climbing buildings for fun, he often gets in trouble with both his parents and the Peacekeepers for doing this, but he doesn’t really mind it all, until he starts getting chased that is. So far he managed to avoid being caught and as long as he's not caught nothing can be proved. Hey! That could have been anyone climbing the Justice Building! Lofton lived a care-free life...until the fateful Reaping day where his brother Griffin was selected. He didn't waste a second before volunteering in his place. The one thing Lofton cared the most for is his family. And he will do anything to protect them. Even at the cost of his own life. Reason for winning: His family. He volunteered to save his brother and hopes to return to him and is parents alive and not in a wooden box.. Part 2 The building she indicated was almost aggressively nondescript. In the darkness, squeezed between an inn and one of the hundreds of waterfront warehouses, it could’ve been any tavern in any seaside town. We stood in the doorway of a closed blacksmith shop across the street and waited to get a look at the clientele. So far, there was none. “No one’s gone in or out the whole time we’ve been here,” I say. “But it’s open,” she pointed out. Lamp glow did shine from the windows, and a lantern beside the hanging sign made sure we could read the name: Mom’s. The house wouldn’t attract anyone’s notice. It was one of dozens of similar dwellings, all packed together in the oldest part of Cheban. They leaned toward each other, arching over the narrow stone streets, many with boarded-up windows and missing doors. Only a few showed any light, and our target wasn’t one of them. The only thing that gave it away, in fact, was the man standing in the doorway. He moved every so often but never stepped into the open. If you passed him, you’d think he was just an intoxicated bum looking for shelter. Only if you watched the house for hours, like we did, would you realize he was a guard. But sometimes, that skill set came in handy, as it did when I stood in the alley beside our boarding house and used a small, silenced handgun to take out the guard with a bullet through the neck, effectively silencing any last cry of warning. Even left-handed, I was a pretty good shot. He fell in the doorway and didn’t move, like a passed-out drunk. He might not have known the nature of the place he was guarding, but that chance was slim; likely he’d thought of it as just another job and could’ve cared less what went on inside, even if he did know about it. At least, that’s what I told myself to justify killing him. I waited to see if other guards would appear. When they didn’t, I scurried across the street, stepped over the body, and hid in the same doorway. I certainly felt no frisson of crippling fear, but since I had the key in my pocket, perhaps that negated it. I listened at the door and heard nothing. Then I banged on it with my good hand and shouted, “Hey! Open up! Somebody just shot at me!” I jumped when the lock on the door began to turn. I stepped to one side as it opened and a scar-faced man stepped out. I drove my dagger into his belly, tilting the thrust upward so that the point got under his ribs and found one of his lungs. He fell, unable to scream, atop the other man. Well, that was two people dead in something under a quarter of an hour, with one arm symbolically, if not literally, tied behind my back. Jane would never believe it. So, now the door was open, and the dark interior beckoned. I entered the darkened foyer, cursing myself for trusting people so openly yet again. The foyer was lavish, with rugs and tapestries visible in the moonlight coming through the high, narrow windows above the door. We reached the first room, a parlor with couches and comfortable chairs. Off the parlor was a short hallway that led to rooms with closed doors. I stood listening and caught the sound of talking behind one of them. I traced it to a particular door locked from the outside by a deadbolt. I turned it slowly until it clicked free. It seemed inconceivable that there could be only the two men I’d killed left to watch over the place, so I assumed I’d already used up my quota of dumb luck for the night. The other rooms were thankfully empty, although all shared the same decor. I stuck my dagger back in my belt, threw off my sling, and stretched my right arm despite the pain. I forced my heart to stop pounding so I could catch even the slightest sound. There it was: soft voices coming from somewhere ahead and below. I found the door easily enough; it wasn’t locked. I slipped through and padded quietly down the stone stairs. I thought hard, trying to decide what to do. Another half-step and they couldn’t fail to notice me. The cells I could see were empty, but these guys had to be guarding something. Did I really want to double my kills for the night? Would I even be able to, injured as I was? These were pros, and while I might take out one of them with the crossbow, I’d never get three bolts in the air before one of them crossed the room and got me. Then I decided the hell with it. I strode into the room, yawned, and said, “Hi.” The three men turned and stared at me. “Sorry,” I said, still yawning. “I normally work days. Who’s in charge?” One of the men said, “I am.” By then, I’d reached the table. “So, you got the notification about me, right?” “No, I—” I slammed the heads of the men on either side of me into each other, making a loud thonk. I used my knee to drive the edge of the tabletop back into the man in charge, and just in time, too: he’d almost gotten his own dagger clear of its sheath. I upended the table and slammed it down on top of him, then jumped on it. I heard bones, probably ribs, snap and he let out a sharp, hissing gasp. He comes on fast and hard, the shield up in front of him, herding me through the stones, jabbing and chopping quick with the sword, I stumble back, short of breath, looking for an opening but not finding one. The shield slams into my chest and knocks my breath out, pressing me back. I try to dodge away but I lurch on my weak leg, and the sword darts out and catches me across the arm. “Gah!” I gasp, staggering against a stone, drops of blood pattering from the cut into the grass. “One to me!” Surorian chuckles, dancing sideways and waving his sword around. I stop and watch him, breathing hard. The shield was a big one and this smiling bastard used it well. Gave him quite the advantage. He was quick, no doubt. Quicker than me, now that I had a bad leg, a cut arm, and a thick head from a punch in the mouth. I edge back, stooping more and panting harder than I actually needed to, letting my arm dangle as if it was useless, blood dripping from the limp fingers. I blink and since rapidly. He edged back past the stones to a space with more room. A nice wide space, where he could get a decent swing. Surorian follows me, his shield held up in front. “That it?” he grins as he advances. “Already fading, eh? I can’t say I’m not disappointed, I was hoping for a--” I roar, springing forward and lifting my sword above my head in both hands. Surorian scrambles back, but not quite far enough. The grey blade tears a chunk from the corner of his shield, slicing clean through and chopping deep into the side of one of the stones with a mighty clang, sending chips of rock spinning. The impact nearly tore the sword from my hands, and sends me flailing sideways. Surioran gasps. Blood is running from a cut on his shoulder, a cut right through his body armour and into the flesh. The tip of the sword must have gashed him as it passed. Not deep enough to kill, unfortunately, but deep enough to make the point alright. It is my turn to grin. “That it?” We moved at the same moment. The two blades clash together, but my grip was stronger. Surorian's sword glints in the sun as it spins from his hand and away down the hillside. He curses, snatching at his belt for a dagger, but before he could get there I am on him. I growl mindlessly as I hack away at the shield, driving Surorian backwards. One last blow crashes into the shield and he staggers from the force of it. He trips over the corner of a fallen stone poking through the grass and tumbles onto his back. I grit my teeth and swung my sword down. It slices clean through the portion of armor on Surorian’s shin and takes his foot off just above the ankle. Blood splatters across the grass. Howling with pain, he drags himself backwards and tries to scramble up, only to shriek as he tried to put weight on his missing foot. Surorian collapses to the ground, sprawling on his back again, coughing and groaning. Silve slashes, wounding me across the leg. I stumble, going down on one knee. Silve strikes again, and I barely manage to keep the sword away. Silve backs off, shaking his head. “You are pathetic, Jayda. There you kneel, about to die. And you still think you’re better than the rest of us. You judge me for becoming a Career? What else was I to do?" I bow my head. Silve grows and runs forward, lashing out with his sword. I try to defend myself, but I am just too weak. Silve knocks my weapon aside, then kicks me in the stomach, sending me backward against the wall. I slump down, sword lost. I reach for a knife on my belt, but Silve steps up and put his booted foot on my hand. I run. Then am struck. Something smashes into my right shoulder, spinning me through the air. I hit the ground, tumble and roll, limbs flopping. My eyes stare up into the swirling dust, the ceiling behind it spinning. A shape appears in its midst, and a hard-soled boot settles on my chest. I can not draw breath. The pressure of the boot is building, crushing my chest. I claw at it. Blackness closes around me. I can taste blood in my mouth. A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. But at sunset the clouds gathered again, bringing an earlier night, and the snow began to fall straight and steadily from a sky without wind, in a soft universal diffusion more confusing than the gusts and eddies of the morning. It seemed to be a part of the thickening darkness, to be the winter night itself descending on us layer by layer. 'Blade Spectrus (District 6)' I ignore the chill that creeps up my spine as I make my way into the resort. I have no clue what to do and wish I had grabbed a weapon. The small backpack I've gotten a hold of wasn't anything special...it contained a packet of dry crackers, a canister to hold water, a flashlight, and an extra pair of socks. For awhile, I just wander, allowing my feet to take me away from the horrors behind me. At one point my datapad comes to life with several long rings, but I don't look down to check the casualties. I just keep on walking, ignoring the protest of my tired limbs. When I get to the edge of the resort, I am met with a tall iron fence. Obviously this is the end of the resort grounds. I walk along it for awhile, headed in the direction of the beach. As I round the corner of the building, I nearly trip over a body. I give a short gasp and stumble backwards. It was the boy ranked #12--Carson. He was passed out on the ground, face pale and haggard. He looks really sick. I kneel beside him and give a light tap on his shoulder. "Hey..." I whisper. He doesn't respond. I stand up, wondering if I should just leave him or not. I don't think there's anything I can do for him... I decide to hang around and see if he will wake up. After I spend several long minutes just sitting here with no change in his posture, I decide to leave him be. I enter the nearest building through a side door. The interior of the building is nearly empty, and quite desolate. I pass through until I find some sinks, which I try and am surprised to find out work. I quickly fill my canister up and then tuck it back inside my backpack. I check all the pantries too, but they're empty. The fridge is almost completely bare as well, only holding a hunk of raw meat that I take. Figuring out how to cook it will come later. Others must have already cleared these buildings out. I locate a staircase near the back of the building and ascend. I'm not too hopeful in finding anything else, but I have to look anyways. Just as I reach the top of the staircase, I look out the window and see something that nearly makes my heart stop. The Hunters--Chris, Nic, Felix, and Justine--are making their way down the path I had just come. Each of them hold a deadly weapon. My first instinct is to hide, but then I remember Carson, passed out right outside the door. I bolt down the steps and burst outside. The voices of the hunters are drawing nearer. I grip Carson by his shirt and shake him roughly. "Wake up! Wake up!" I hiss desperately. "You have to get out of here!" Almost immediately his eyes snap open and he whips his head around, confused. "What's going on?" He asks groggily, not even affected by my presence as he reaches for his head. "The Hunters are coming." I whisper. Then, as he looks around in sudden fright, I turn and run as fast as I can. Laura disappears almost as soon as she arrives. Her warning words echo in my ears even as she disappears from sight, running as fast as her legs will take her. The Hunters are coming. The words throb in my ears, filling me with panic as I pull myself up. The Hunters are coming. I break into a run just as the sound of excited shouting comes from behind me. The Hunters have rounded the corner spotted me fleeing. I risk a look over my shoulder and see them running after me, whooping and hollering with weapons raised over their heads. I pick up the pace. I run blindly, as fast as my ill body will go. Dark spots flood my vision, making it difficult to see my surroundings. My head is pounding unbearably, my arms shaking uncontrollably. I feel like I'm about to pass out at any second. But the threat of death pumps adrenaline into my body and I run like I've run before. The fence, the entrance to the resort grounds, suddenly looms ahead. Deep despair grips my heart until I see that the gate is wide open. Laura must have sped out this way. As I blast by the gate, I swing a hand out and slam it shut behind me. It will slow them down. Not for long, but it will slow them down. I slip into the forest and nearly trip and fall over every root and twig. The world seems to be spinning, spinning like a carousel. Round and round and round. I stumble and only avoid falling by slamming into a tree. Then I'm back up and running again. I break out onto the beach, and I'm suddenly aware of where I am. The small island on the coastal shelf hangs in the distance. I've never been there before, but I find myself making a beeline for it. My breaths come in short gasps, and my stomach feels like it's about to explode its contents all over. But I push on. The Hunters are gaining ground, and fast. I can hear their shouts just behind me. I crash into the water, waves lapping at my thighs as I struggle towards the island. That's my help. My only chance. Somehow, someway, I manage to reach the island. But so do they. I'm only a few steps on the sand when a sword slashes across my back. I scream with pain as I feel two gashes forming. I whip around, arms flailing. I'm not going to run. I'm going to fight. But I have no chance. I shove Justine away just as Chris throws himself at me, easily knocking me down. The giant boy pins me to the ground, while I struggle futility, screaming my head off. Then he raises a large knife and with one swift, deft motion, slices the blade across my throat. Blood gurgles down my lips as I attempt to breath through my mangled throat. My eyes are wide and unseeing. My life seems to flash through my mind. I see everyone I've ever loved, all of them now lost to me. Espeon...I'm sorry... I can only think one thing as I close my eyes and let death take me. 'Blade Spectrus (District 6)' Silently, as the sun set across the golden fields of District 9, Robyn Blackthorn crept out of bed. The darkness wasn't quite absolute yet, and it was with the last slivers of daylight that she found her riding clothes, slipping them on in darkness. Last, rustling mutinously as she put it on, was her most prized possession beside Cinder; her jacket. It had been an adult men's jacket, and slid halfway over her hands and shoulders as if to illustrate just how un-adult and un-male her figure was; but when belted tightly and worn with pride, she looked every part the rebellious, leather-jacketed, older rider she wished to appear to be. She pulled her long russet hair from where it was caught underneath it, hastily plaiting it into a half-decent braid before tying it together with a scrap of string. On went her boots, and her messenger bag over her shoulder, and she was ready. Slowly, quietly, she slid out of her room, desperately minimizing the clack of her boots against the bare wooden flooring. Her parents couldn't know they were doing this, meeting him; they thought what he stood for could ruin the business and home they'd worked their life to get. Robyn didn't refute that, but she was merely disinterested in those consequences. Her brother was outside, already making his way to the stables. She closed the door carefully then rushed across the farm to meet him, her long auburn braid catching the last of the light in the sky. It was a moonless night, and the stars glittered above them, a soft glow in the sky. As ever, Robyn looked up habitually until she saw a great red glow, the flickering light of a strange star she had never been taught about. She had often asked what it was, but not even her teachers had known. She had always wondered if the Capitol knew what the red star in the sky was, flickering as it did like her hair in the last embers of sunlight. "You were careful, right?" Her brother whispered. His eyes glinted in the light, an odd golden brown that caught the light like her hair. "Of course I was," Robyn replied. "Dan, how stupid do you think I am?" "Oh, only as stupid as usual, Robby Robyn," he said fondly. Despite the height difference, Robyn could still scuffle with him a little until his advantage of height, age and strength overpowered hers. She stifled her giggles of amusement to keep the quiet. Dan pushed open the door to the stables; the familiar and comforting smell of horse and sawdust washed around them. Robyn instinctively made her way to the partition she knew best; a dark form whinnied softly and nuzzled at her hand as she offered it to its velvet lips. A dapple gray coat, silver and fine with dark spots rippling the surface, breaking over the crest of its mane, which was pure obsidian. The Andalusian mare raised her head, whickered, and regarded Robyn with her intelligent brown eyes. She smiled, rubbed its neck, swung over the fence into its partition, then began to buckle on the saddle. Dan looked over as he led his own stallion, large and jet-black, their classic Blackthorn-bred plough horse, through the stable. "There's not time for that," he said urgently. "Just take her out and let's go!" "Alright, alright, hold yer horses," she quipped, ignoring the groan her brother responded with. She led Cinder gently with a hand on her neck, opening the gate and leading her behind Dan and his stallion. The stable door opened; the stable door closed. They mounted their horses, Robyn unused to doing so without a foot on a stirrup but managing nevertheless, and then ushering their horses into a canter, away from the farm. Dan's horse was a member of the Blackthorn breed; a plough horse, tall and strong, sold for considerable prices. District 9's fields were always in need of plough horses, and while District 10 bred them they were rarely bred well; they simply didn't know what was needed in a good plough horse. The Blackthorn family had filled that gap, and in doing so had made a lot of money. Robyn's horse, however, was decidedly not a plough horse. The Andalusian, king of horses, the horse of kings, was a war horse, fast and intelligent and responsive to their rider. The breed was a rarity in Panem, and the Blackthorn family had purchased a single mare as a foal when a District 10 herd became available for sale. While the family used it mostly as a horse for training others, and as the single horse besides the breeding pair that they did not sell, it was generally regarded as Robyn's horse; she had named her, ridden her since she was able to be ridden. Cinder was her horse, and could gallop like a silver wind. As they left the farm, she urged it into doing so, leaving Dan in her dust as they rode through District 9. Being out after curfew was an offence that was always punished by execution. Since the riots of the past few days, the unrest following the 76th Hunger Games, the Peacekeepers had cracked down on anyone out after nine, and the patrol teams had increased in size. Still, Robyn wasn't worried; she knew every inch of her agricultural District, and rode faster than any other in it. The two cut into a wheat field and crossed it at speed, Cinder's hooves finding the ground with a surety that training couldn't create. The night had closed in now, but Robyn's eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she led the way. The huge barn that housed crops for the District Reserve was, for now, empty; in the coming weeks, it would be filled to its twenty-metre ceilings. Tonight, it housed two hundred people with ease. Dan rode up behind her as she dismounted Cinder; she waited for him as he too dismounted and walked up beside her. "You know the knock?" She whispered. "Course, they told me," Dan responded. He gently rapped his knuckles against the wooden door in a rhythm. A rattle of something being scraped away from the door, and it opened; the two walked into the gloom of the barn, leading their horses in with them. Sonorous tones were already speaking as they walked in. "-Is why we have to stop acting is individuals and band together as a coherent group," Rufus Warnke said, sitting on a platform of pallets. Two hundred people had been what Dan had guessed would be the attendance, but he had been wrong; somehow, three hundred others had found their way to the barn. Rufus' eyes glanced up as Cinder whinnied, and they met Robyn's. Robyn stood still, green eyes caught in the searchlight beam of Rufus' alert gaze. "Welcome," he said with interest. "It's good to see young blood for the cause. What's your name?" "Robyn Blackthorn." "Oh-h," he said with clear interest as the five hundred turned to see the Blackthorns that had turned up to a revo meeting. "No wonder you rode here. How old are you two?" "Eighteen." "Fourteen." "Fourteen," Rufus repeated, his eyes not leaving Robyn's. Robyn, unused to the attention of so many and defensive of how she seemed to be the youngest here, spoke up. "I have an Andalusian," she said sharply. "She's really fast, and so am I. I'll do anything needed to further the cause." Rufus' lips quirked in a slight smile. "I'm sure you will, and I'm sure your speed can be put to great use," he said. "Can you evade patrols, are you that fast?" "Easily." If there was one thing Robyn was proud about, it was her prowess at riding. Rufus nodded contently. "If your brother will permit it, you would be a great help to the cause. Our allies in neighbouring Districts need to take us messages every so often, and we to them; electronics are out of the question, as right now they can be so easily tapped. Until we fix that issue, we need someone to take us messages from the District borders; are you willing to do so?" "More than willing." Robyn puffed up a little with pride, her smile increasing in size. Dan looked worried as he glanced between Rufus and Robyn, but said nothing. "Then it's settled. Now, about the matter of Peacekeeper brutality..." Part 3 https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10748102/5/The-Fifteenth-Hunger-Games-Fallen-Leaves A kind of ritual magic that makes you the temporary channel for a Power, timeless things from outside existence. The exact ritual sets bounds on the Power and guides its actions toward the desired result: healing, transformation of the body, the unleashing of fire, or whatever other effect is desired. Lyches know how to use preexisting magical patterns easily enough but experimentation is dangerous. The slightest error can give the Power summoned too much free reign or, if the binding is successful, force it to take an undesired action. Accordingly, innovation is very slow. Another limitation is tied to candles, which are necessary to strengthen the invoked Power— it might be said that a Power is like a hole of a certain shape which supplies nothing of itself but determines the shape of whatever is put through it. Each candle adds to the potency at hand to make the spell 1.05 times greater than before. Repeated channeling of Powers affects the body, most principally granting longevity. A lych’s mind is not equipped for this, however, and the weight of memory proves an eventual but inevitable strain. Suicide among very old lyches is common, as senility begins to settle in over the course of centuries. On the bright side, however, senility within the context of a conventional lifespan is far rarer, due to the efforts of lyches to ward off the effects of aging wherever they can, for as long as they can. If you want some quick figures: 15 candles are necessary to make a spell 2.078 times as powerful as with one candle. 33 to reach 5.003x potency, 50 candles gives it a potency of 11.467x, and 93 candles before the potency overtakes the number of candles at a potency of 93.455x. 100 candles gives a potency of 131.501x and 200 gives a potency of 17,292.58x. "Will you chill out? No one ever got killed with one little arrow!" "Actually, they have. That is kind of the purpose of arrows." The one on the right had a grizzled beard, a bald head, and a belly that spilled over his swordbelt where his lap should have been. The one on her left was no more than eighteen, and skinny as a spear. His ginger-colored whiskers only partially served to disguise the angry red pimples that dotted his face. Clean-limbed and handsome, straight as a lance, hard with muscle. He had a mop of sandy blond hair, pale blue eyes, and an aquiline nose. A few feet away, two knights were fighting with blunted practice swords. Their blades crashed together twice, then slipped past each other only to be blocked by upraised shields, but the bigger man gave ground at the impact. A few moments later and the big man sprawled dazed in the dust with his helm askew. When his squire undid the fastenings to bare his head, there was blood trickling down his scalp. If the swords had not been blunted, there would be brains as well. That last head blow had been so hard Gendry had winced in sympathy when it fell. He handed his shield to his loutish squire, removed his helm and quilted coif. “Gendry. Alayne.” His long brown hair was plastered to his brow by sweat. “Well struck, Ser Lyon,” Shayne called out. “Though I fear you’ve knocked poor Owen insensible.” Edric glanced back to where his foe was being helped from the yard by another paladin. “He had no sense to start with, or he should not have tried me.” The boots were lumps of old brown leather mottled with saltstains and cracked from long wear, her belt a length of hempen rope dyed blue. She knotted it about her waist, and hung a knife on her right hip and a coin pouch on her left. Last of all she threw her cloak across her shoulders. It was a real mummer’s cloak, purple wool lined in red silk, with a hood to keep the rain off, and three secret pockets too. She’d hid some coins in one of those, an iron key in another, a blade in the last. A real blade. Ahead of them rose a cliff of black rocks, covered with vines and shaggy moss. A stream cascades from about halfway up; the pool glittering with starlight. "Nice scars. Where did you get them?" "Two things are more dangerous then death in this world," he says, his smile widening. "Asking impolite questions of strangers, and playing with things you don't fully understand. My error was in the latter category." "What are those gloves for?" "Unwelcome but anticipated consequences." He does not elaborate. "He's a clever boy who so does love his ambushes," Callistege is whispering in my ear again, though her mouth is closed and she does not look at me. "The gloves are a new toy." Thistlethwayte The forest was gloomy. The sky hung above them, dull and gray; it smelled of rotting bark and musty leaves. Thunder roared in the distance. The plasma cannon is a fusion powered thing that magnetically bottles plasma and shoots it at the enemy. “Son, you’re going to break that plasma cannon. It’s a fusion powered thing…” “And no, that throws the magnets out of whack and the column won’t stay straight.” while this plasma cannon is being deployed, the reader is told the things that they need to be told, which are, for the purpose of this story, it’s a magnetic bottle that shoots charged particles. So later on, when we introduce some other charged particle magnet thing, we understand why the plasma cannon failed. Those, for me, are the three skill levels. Knowledge is wasted on those without enough wisdom to use it. Long-stemmed clusters of reeds grew along pools covered in bright green pondweed. Between them were brittle tussocks of grass and sedge, and small spindly saplings grew with roots that reached into the water. There was a dank, musty scent, and silence hung in the air. Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman’s name. He opened his mouth to plead, but the noose choked off his words. His feet left the ground, the rope cutting deep into the soft flesh beneath his chin. Up into the air he jerked, kicking and twisting, up and up and up. He felt the hemp constricting, jerking his chin upward. He sucked the air in desperately, even as the rope was strangling him. Nothing had ever hurt so much. Black rings frame the edge of my vision as as my lungs fail me. Then a voice breaks the silence. "Stop. Cut him down." superheats slugs of magnetically doped plastic and accelerates the resulting gas-liquid mix using an array of linear magnets." Ionized polymer synballistic They were in an open meadow, with scattered rocky outcrops, and intermittent plumes of steam rising from the ground. It was late afternoon, and the sky was pink underneath the lowering gray clouds. He got back up quickly, blinking in the darkness. His mouth was warm with blood. He was tall, thin, handsome in a bookish way. He wore small round glasses, hair slicked back with oil, a large mouth with good teeth. He had a very prominent jaw. Somehow, I got a sense of power from him. If this is love, I do not want it. Why does it hurt so much? Make it stop, please! Which was a wise move as it happened, because the next instant a detonation exploded against the floor directly behind me. The impact was so great that I was sent flying headlong at an angle down the hall and half into a wall. Struggling to my feet amidst the confusion of shattered bricks I turned around. With a slow, deliberate motion, he placed his hands together so they formed a steepled arch. These he pointed at me. I stumped down the cold, dark street, looking at my reflection as it flitted through the wide square windows. My shoulders were hunched against the wind, my hands deep in jacket pockets. White trainers scuffed the concrete. I looked just as I felt; dejected and miserable. He ascended the marbled steps between two granite pillars, entering the echoing foyer. It was a vast, featureless place; office workers quietly passed back and forth between wooden doors on either side, their shoes making respectful patters against the floor. Behind this were two statues built on a heroic scale, and sandwiched between them was a desk piled high with papers Dropping flat onto the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain--just a deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off. Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet, and ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the arm below the wound. the arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain. Then taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound. A paroxysm of pain swept through him. He placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. He tied the ends with his teeth. Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome the pain. It was dark and cold in the garden. Rain was falling. A damp cutting wind was racing about the garden, howling and giving the trees no rest. The banker strained his eyes, but could see neither the earth nor the white statues, nor the lodge, nor the trees. Going to the spot where the lodge stood, he twice called the watchman. No answer followed. Evidently the watchman had sought shelter from the weather, and was now asleep somewhere either in the kitchen or in the greenhouse. I couldn't feel anything at all- except a slight nausea and a desire to vomit. Everything was automatic now. I stepped back a pace, waiting, and the funny thing was that he remained standing there for at least four or five seconds, gently swaying. Then he crashed to the carpet. The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of he shock. She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and she stood for a while blinking at the body, It was a vast place, wide and open under a steeply pitched roof held up by blackened beams. The walls and floors were made from giant smoothed blocks of stones; windows were ornate arches filled with intricate stained glass. At the far end a multitude of doors and windows opened onto a terrace overlooking the river. Yellow lights hung from the ceiling and on walls, attached to metal braziers. I stand at the top of the steps that swept down into the majestic hall. A black-suited servant whirled pass, collecting Arnold's jacket. serillium alloy. They were on the upper floor of what evidently had been a public building. The room was cavernous, bare and empty, with whitewashed walls that were stained yellow and green with mold. All along each wall stretched row upon row of empty shelves, covered in dirt, grime, and bird droppings. Discongulate piles of wood that might once have been tables or chairs lay in a few corners. Tall windows look out onto the street and marbled stairs led to the lower floor. The whole place stank of damp and decay. rugged white shirt, smog-Gray jacket, crisp and squared, decorated with bright red buttons. She’s quite easy to look at, with never-ending legs, toned arms, curly brown hair, and eyes that tease and smile and glint all at the same time. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness and find the old man. He was sitting at a three-legged table, hunched over a cup of coffee like a dog guarding a hard-won bone, staring into the snowy screen of a black-and-white television. Ghostly images flickered in and out. There was no audio except for a static hiss. The old man went to the corner of the room, where a tub of water sat idle. Kurt noticed that the man rigged a purification system over the tub, allowing him access to relatively clean water. The man took some water and some leaves he had stored in a cupboard. Then he prepared two cups of tea, working diligently with trembling old hands. Kurt sat at the low table and watched as the old man prepared the tea, observing the man’s technique as he mixed ingredients and stirred them in wooden cups At the bottom of the steps was another door, which he opened with a well-placed kick. Dampness wafted over them as they stepped into the basement, which had walls lined with broken mirrors. Some old exercise weights lay abandoned in the corner. In the middle of the woods, the Svartálfar had constructed a large settlement. It was surrounded by a thick wooden wall, studded with huge wooden thorns and metal spikes. The area around the wall was cleared of all vegetation, so that it could not be scaled with nearby trees. There were trees on the other side of the wall, which had platforms and turrets for guards to stand watch on. The settlement’s gate was a thick wooden door with iron supports; it swung open for us as we approached. Inside the settlement, the Svartálfar used most of the trees as buildings; they were all hollowed-out to serve as homes, stairwells, storage, and stores. They also had small wooden shacks and huts in between the trees. Some buildings were also constructed on the sides of trees and on their branches. There were scores of elves bustling around, trading with their craftsmen, mentoring their children, and practicing with their weapons. When I entered the town, they all stopped to gawk at me; I met their gazes with my own loo Mortimer Murchinson Something slashed across his face, cutting open his cheek, spilling blood across his face. His cheek burned with pain, and something raked his side, slashing his tunic, and cutting his skin. Hollows, crevices, and nooks scored the rock. Some shadowed sections here still hid pools of water left over from the storm days ago. as red and wrinkled as a sun-dried tomato When I think of the future, I can only think of my eventual death, the empty echo of black nothingness awaiting, listening in on our every conversation, searching for the right cue to strike out it’s effortless claws and grab us all. I am wide awake, in the grips of a panic attack, at that thought. I had begun to think that sleep was close, before my mind wandered to the thought, ‘I am going to die’. Even in the knowledge of it’s inescapabilty, I seamlessly manage to forget my mortality until some quiet moments in the night, where the truth sinks in. I reject it every time. In no time at all, my anxiety is gone. I am fine again. The wall clock reads 04:00 before I finally drift off into a different world. I dream of flashing by tree lines and the night, lit up by stars and a bright moon. There’s always something lurking out of my sight, as I walk through fields of long grass and wet dirt. As he passed where I was standing, he raised his head for a second, and to this day I can remember what I felt as our eyes met. It was a look as cold as steel, in which there was something threatening, even frightening, and it struck me like a blow. The Tsar's gaze! The look of a man who stood above all others, but who carried a monstrous burden and who every minute had to fear for his life and the lives of those closest to him. The cruel boy looks up at Chris with a smile. "Now that the shoe's on the other foot..." He shoots up, hands faster then a hummingbird's wings. A dagger appears, lurches forward four times into Chris' side. Then he twists like he's wringing a towel, severing arteries. Chris' ruined face gasps with sudden shock, he staggers back a few paces, then collapses. Nic looks down with a triumphant grin as the datapad rings and Chris slides all the way to the bottom. "Shoulda killed me when you had the chance!" He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Bradley floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped. Active Denial System Down past where the trident pointed was an alley where they sold fried cod, crisp and golden brown outside and flaky white within. … Inside the Eel, time stood still. The barrel-vaulted ceiling was stained black with soot, the floor was hard-packed earth, the air smelled of smoke and spoiled meat and stale vomit. I would say so many things. "I am sorry", "It's all my fault," "You didn't deserve it," and such. But I know it won't help. It won't do anything for him. I was just too late and "sorry" could never make up for it. "Relax," she says, stirring a pot of some unidentifiable liquid over a small fire. "I'm human too. I've been stuck here a while." She stands, brushing her dusty hands against her shirt, before reaching one out, a warm smile on her face. "The name is Sue. Sue Vival." I began walking through the camp. Men bustled around him, collapsing tents, carrying supplies, packing equipment. I turned to glance behind. The newcomer was a much younger nobleman, perhaps five or six years my senior. The man stood leaning against a pile of packing crates a short distance away. His hair was light, his body lean and tall, and his silk shirt light blue against a darker blue cloak. He glanced at his companions with dissatisfaction. The three, however, seemed too excited by the prospect of earning Aredor’s favor to notice the disappointment. Torol was large and muscular despite his age, with arms like stone and a chest broad as a boulder. Yet, there was nothing oafish in his air. He stood with an innate majesty, his eyes wise, his voice calm and stately. He wore his armor, even though there was no danger of battle, and over the glistening silver he wore a regal cloak of the deepest blue with the symbol of his house on the back. The first two hundred feet or so are deceptively easy: after you’ve slithered and squeaked past a row of huge boulders crowded together like a mouthful of grey, diseased teeth, the cave opens up like a belly. A bit farther on, you stroll down a broad, pebbly incline while the natural light gradually dims. The vertical slit of the opening shrinks to the size of a peach pit. Suddenly, you find yourself in a constricted, mausoleum-black oubliette. You switch on your headlamp and commence the descent, scuttling through barely shoulder-width tunnels, snaking up vertical cracks, traversing a series of amber-blue lakes, some of which you can ford without getting your knees wet, others deepening into treacherous sumps where you’ll drown if you don’t have a rebreather or a damn good set of lungs. When I turn him over, jagged pebbles and mineral chips mixed with shattered enamel gush out of his mouth in a torrent of red. How have I come to be half a mile under the earth, worming my way through a twist in the moist, black, and aptly named Intestinal Bypass, a wretched, rib-crushing, claustrophobia-inducing belly crawl. Nearing the end, just a minute ago, I came to a plug in the tunnel about ten feet ahead. I can see the bottoms of dirt-packed, lug-soled boots, a damp, filthy oversuit, and, if I crane my neck almost out of joint, I can make out the white dome of a mud-splattered helmet. I crawl closer, scraping along on my elbows and toes, but get no reaction to the light flaring out from my headlamp. My initial thought is that the caver’s become wedged in the last few feet of the Bypass, where the tunnel cinches like a cruelly corseted waist. My second thought, after I grab a leg and begin shaking it, is that while he may or may not be stuck, this guy’s stone-cold dead. Panic pinballs around my ribs. My lungs rasp, and all the air’s vanished. Gradually, I coax a full breath past the terror constricting my throat. I’m not going to die down here. Not yet, anyway. A numb resolve settles in: I can do this. Trying to eject a dead guy out the end of a tomb-black tunnel while you’re flat on your bellyis the worst experience I have ever faced in my admittedly short life. I push until my biceps blaze, but it’s impossible to get any traction. I strain and curse and hyperventilate. Drink tears and cold, musky sweat. Desperate, I decide to wiggle back out and look for another way to go on, but the tunnel twists and contorts at excruciating angles. It’s impossible to slither out the way I came in. All I get for my efforts are bruised elbows, torn knees, and a scraped forehead. Panic claws at my throat. I’ll never get out. I’ll die here, squished inside a stone straightjacket. But the voice in my head bullies and curses me onward, so I crawl back to the body. Since I’m not strong enough to rely on brute force, I devise a slow, minimalist series of tweaks that gradually loosens this obstinate flesh-cork in its stone bottleneck: nudge, twist, rock side to side, nudge again. The poor groundsman must have died two to six hours ago, because rigor’s setting in, which helps me extract him. He’s plank-stiff and (I discover later) both arms are arrowed out in front of him like a cliff diver, the body so rigid by the time it finally pops free, he could double as a javelin or a maypole. I wriggle out, shaking and sweat-slick, and aim my lamp down at the dead man, groaning when it illuminates the back of his seamed, bloodied neck and reveals the muddy helmet to be a porridge of gray matter and hair glommed around a split, trepanned skull. I picture Mamoudi frantically trying to squeeze himself out those last crushing inches of squeeze, the irony of a rockfall shattering his skull just as his head poked free. It’s a reasonable theory, except that I don’t see any fallen rocks or broken stalactites to back it up. Looking around, I find myself in a wide, high-domed chamber covered floor to ceiling with dripstone. Farther back, overlapping ledges of white limestone crease and crinkle like bolts of brocade. The scene is enchanting and eerie, a grand Gothic hall carved out of calcite and ornamented with aragonite blooms. At one end glimmers a deceptively shallow-looking pond where eyeless albino salamanders laze on its mineral shores. I know from the survey map this is a sump, the entrance to a flooded tunnel leading into the next chamber, but whether it’s swimmable I won't know until I try. Displaced air caused by something big lunging out of a passageway makes me whirl around. A frenzy of shadows spills over the chamber as my lamp illuminates a surreal sight: A tall, brutish, an completely bald Groundsman, his naked torso smeared with geometric designs painted in cave dirt and gore, brandishing three feet of a blood-streaked stalactite. His shell-shocked stare tells me all too clearly I’m nobody he’s ever seen in his life, and my death is all he desires. As the echoes from the faraway singing swells over me, he raises his club and charges. The Groundsman halts just short of the sump. He spits out a lump of green, bares his teeth in a demented grin, and takes a few warm-up swings with the club. I think he’s going to pound me to mud, but what he does next is unimaginably worse: he starts attacking the cave itself, swinging viciously, destroying elaborate lacework and yards of dripstone that have grown at a rate of a half inch per century. Clusters of wedge-shaped helictites explode overhead; stalagmites as tall as a man shatter and crash into the sump. The destruction sickens and horrifies me as ceiling above our heads begin to shake and shudder. Within seconds, something sublime and ethereal has been reduced to an empty mouth full of snaggled teeth. The Groundsman, surveying the rubble, cocks his head and does a bizarre little jig, like he’s shaking off a swarm of cave spiders. He shimmies and scrapes at his face while he screams hysterically. "Shut up! Make it stop!" The singing. It dawns in me with terrifying horror. He's talking about the singing. When his eyes refocus, his red gaze finds me again. I switch off my headlamp, and the world floods away in a torrent of black. I drop to the ground and start inching along the cave floor. The singing seems to pick up the intensity. A hail of stones peppers my back and pings off my helmet. Suddenly, the Groundsman big hands grab at my legs. I kick out blindly. My boot thuds against his thigh. Then he’s on top of me, mint breath hot in my face, mud-slick fingers fumbling for my jugular. A blacker, thicker shade of night starts shutting down synapses, accompanied by a dazzle of sizzling white stars expiring behind my retinas. Under my hand I clutch a slab of smashed dripstone and heave it in the general direction of his head. He releases my throat but then latches on to either side of my mouth and tries to unsocket my jaw. I bite down on a finger until my teeth close cut through the skin, then roll away as blood fills my mouth. Next thing I know, I’m underwater. The sump’s frigid and inky, and— I'm forced to flick my flashlight back on. I’m inside a flooded tunnel where so much silt has been stirred up, it’s like swimming through thick cream. I look for an air pocket overhead but can make out only jutting mineral walls and the segmented bodies of albino worms ghosting behind swirls of particled water. My lungs bleed for air. The sump narrows into a long, jagged throat, where beyond, water splashes over a pale, fluted ledge. Between me and the air glitters a gauntlet of stone cudgels and knives. My pack rips off and my oversuit’s torn. Dark red snakes squiggling too close alarm me until I realize I’m batting away my own blood. My head punches the surface, and I heave myself onto a milk-white dome of flowstone, then collapse across it, teeth wildly clattering. I sit in devastated silence for a moment, noting that the singing has completely stopped. There is no sign or sound of the Groundsman. Eventually, I rally enough to fill my hands with rocks and wait to see if he will reappear. A short time later, he pops to the surface floating facedown. I let him stay like that for five minutes before I grab his belt and haul him up next to me. His neck and cheeks are grotesquely ballooned. When I turn him over, jagged pebbles and mineral chips mixed with shattered enamel gush out of his mouth in a torrent of red. I want to think that the Groundsman was already dangerously unstable and would have acted out sooner or later, but I don’t really believe it. I know the singing has unhinged him to the point of attacking the cave with his teeth. The singing is cursed. I scrabble at the edge of the sump, grabbing slick, wet pondweed with my fingers and shoving the gunk into my ears until I can hear nothing at all. I all too vividly remember the strange enthralling compulsion to follow the singing when I first exited the tunnel. I cannot afford to hear it--least I wind up like that poor Groundsman--as I continue on deeper into the cave. The next chamber confounds me: a sprawling catacomb dripping with soda-straw stalactites and mounded with nodular masses of calcite popcorn. Crystals of moonmilk, a carbonate material the texture of cream cheese, festoon the floor. None of it corresponds to any maps I’ve seen. Even worse are the braided mazes of lava tubes offering a bewildering array of possible paths deeper into the cave’s interior. Cursing silently, I choose the path furthest to the right and head on, legs like jelly and shaking with trepidation. I scramble up a succession of ledges to access a passageway midway up the wall. Up is good. Up will take me back to the surface, back to the rest of the world. Its coiled path empties into an angular chamber that resembles a vandalized ossuary: stone pillars surrounding a scattering of femurs, ribs, clavicles, and fragments of skull. The fact that the bones have lain here for a long time--made clear by the centuries-old webs of calcite deposits that veil them--does little to remedy the intense fear that grips my heart and twists my gut. What the hell happened here? Why are there so many bones? So many dead people? Did they all go crazy, too? I think back to the deranged Groundsman and shudder. I pick my way through the boneyard as quickly as possible. Beyond it, my headlamp illuminates the area before me—a lavish display of boxwork about four feet overhead, where calcite blades project at angles from the cave walls, creating a dense and elaborate honeycomb. Between the mineral blades gleam dark seams, fistulas of ebony pulsing like fat heaps of flesh that vibrate with an avid, luminescent life. Fine, blood-red webbing threads through the black, a network of strange capillaries that dangle from the ceiling, threatening to touch my head as I weave through them, heart beating like a bass drum. I try not to stare at them. I don't want to know what these damned things are. I just want to escape from this hellish cave. I'm halfway through the chamber when something falls from a pillar. It strikes a stone not more than a few feet from me, soundlessly clattering across the obsidian floor as it slowly comes to a halt. Heart pounding in my ears, blood rushing to my head, I look up. Above me, imbedded into the hivework, loom strange columns worked into the stone, skeletal formations lifting toward the obsidian sky. Sections are patterned with ovoids and creases of lighter stone, the pale areas inlaid with vertical striations of crimson. The sight wallops the breath from my chest. One of the columns is watching me. Basalt doesn’t bleed, but burst eyeballs and lacerated skin weep red down the sides of the dripstone cloaking two human forms in their mineral shrouds. Elijah has been almost entirely consumed. Crusts of muscle and gashed bone jut out from his stone sarcophagus. Only his upper chest, the arms tucked into his torso like folded wings, and his slack, swollen face are still recognizably human. But Cassandra, oh Cassandra, is another matter. Her time captured must have been briefer than Elijah's; less of her has been entombed. Rigid and ashen-faced, she balances on a narrow outcrop a few feet above, tarry squiggles of hair falling over the rags of her clothing. Her mouth convulses in torment. Skeins of fleshy wires tangle in her teeth and snake from her lips. Tendrils of it adhere to her face. I feel sick to my gut watching them. Bile rises in my throat, threatening to spill out over the cavern floor. I had forgotten all about the Ishtar Recruits that had fallen into this accursed cave with me. Better that I had. Better that I never gazed upon this horrifying monstrosity of death and despair. I want to run away, hurry past this death-filled cavern and find my way back home, where I would gratefully cry myself to sleep. But I can't leave. Not yet. Cassandra is still alive. Black rings frame the edge of my vision as her silent screams flail me. Her body spasms. A rent opens under her chest as the slender spear she’s impaled on exits her flesh in a gleaming red fist. I try not to look at the carnage beneath it. The ledge is slick and cushiony, weirdly flesh-like, when I climb up, wrap my arms around her, and try to lift her free from the stone. Crimson bubbles erupt from her mouth. She tries to form words. I put my face close to hers as she exhales and just manage to understand what she mouthes. It stirs. An icy chill runs down my spine. My body freezes with unimaginable horror. What stirs? What could have done this to them? I don't know and don't ever want to find out. With tears stinging my eyes, I pull my knife from my belt and press it against the soft flesh of Cassandra's neck. A swift death is merciful. I leap down from the ledge and take off into the cave, eyes blurry with tears. Of all the horrors I have experienced so far, this is by far the worse. Worse than anything else I could have imagined. My feet take me away from that cavern and further away from the horrors. The ground beneath my feet grows a steep incline as I go, taking me upwards. With every step I expect a horrifying creature to leap out and devour me or for the cave to simply crush me. Yet I prevail. I don't know for how long I run, but eventually I see a bright light ahead of me, glowing with the promise of sunlight and escape. With one last cry, I run towards it.